The ceremony's heat still clung to my skin like drying sweat when the last wave of pleasure finally ebbed. Clarity slammed into me—cold, sharp, post-nut clarity that stripped every illusion bare. The aperture wasn't some sacred gateway or poetic soul-door. It was an organ. Sealed at birth like no other organ in the body, because Heaven knew what it was doing. The moment we completed the union, that seal shattered on purpose. For exactly two years, shame simply ceased to exist. Youth who had gone through the ceremony could walk the mountain paths completely bare if they wished—girls included—and feel nothing but the wind. No blush, no hesitation, no society's leash. Then, on the morning of our eighteenth year, the seal would reform and shame would flood back in like it had never left. A built-in reset. Ruthless. Efficient. Perfect for giving us a window of pure, shameless momentum before the world re-imposed its rules.
Lira stepped up beside me while the others were still catching their breath. She looked at me with steady brown eyes, voice low and final.
"Don't think of me as your dao partner, you thick white-lucky fellow," she said. "The ceremony opened us together. That's all it did. Don't let your head spin fantasies because of it."
I met her gaze for one heartbeat. Inside, the thought crystallized like ice: Of course I can't marry her. Her branch family would never accept a Lone orphan with an empty house and nothing but white-thread luck. I had fled the clearing with her only minutes ago because it was convenient. But she was nothing but a burden now—crimson luck at best, a subordinate at worst. Leaving her without saying a single word was best. Cleaner. No drama, no clinging, no wasted breath.
I gave her the smallest nod, the kind that could mean anything, and turned away. She would understand later. Or she wouldn't. Either way, this was the last time we would meet.
The old elder raised his hand. "Enough. Sit. Consolidate the aperture. It is not a metaphor—it is an organ of flesh and qi. Meditate. Lock it in place. Only then will your painted fate reveal its true color."
We obeyed. The clearing fell into silence broken only by breathing. I dropped into lotus, fed the fresh aperture with steady cycles, and felt it stabilize like a second heart locking into rhythm.
Colors bloomed above every head.
Lira's luck ignited first—crimson, steady but unremarkable. Two more girls and one boy matched her crimson. Three boys and one girl flared red. And then the smug-faced youth from the distant branch—slick hair, easy smirk—burned bright orange. Protagonist bastard. If I had spat the word aloud, the elders would have chuckled indulgently and said nothing more. After all, which "lost one" could they bear to scold in front of everyone?
They watched us with quiet orthodox pride. The elder at the center was rank 3 peak—silver hair, calm eyes. Flanking him: two women and one man at rank 2 peak, two men and one woman at high-tier rank 2. The rest were scattered rank 2 low and rank 1. Small mountain sect. All virtue-path. They drank in the moment because these were their seedlings—future righteous cultivators who would never need to turn demonic.
At the edge, the mortal children stared with open envy. None of them had felt the heat during the ceremony. No aperture had opened. Black luck. Mortal fate. They could still choose the demonic path—steal luck, devour sin, hunt Life Luck Flowers in solitude. But who would trade loving families for that? The gamble was sickening: chase a flower whose quality might add decades or mere years, only to die young anyway, alone and hated. They turned away, faces pale.
During the consolidation, something settled inside me—cool and deep. Patience. The first of the fire virtues. It suited the half-dead soul wearing this body perfectly. The elders never named the remaining six. Heaven had sealed those revelations inside our minds; we had to walk forward ourselves to unlock them. Noble houses and rich clans would sail through with resources and tutors. The rest of us would bleed for every step. That was the rule.
The moment the elder finished imparting the basic circulation method, I began practicing. Right there, no hesitation, three flawless revolutions in front of everyone. The rank 3 peak elder watched in silence. They wanted to guide the "lost Lone boy" onto the righteous path—wanted proof that even ashes could burn cleanly. Their silence was approval. Their worry was already easing.
I rose, bowed once—minimal, polite—and started walking.
Lira was still sitting, eyes closed, crimson luck flickering above her like dying coals. I didn't speak to her. Didn't glance back. This was the last time our paths would cross, and I left it that way—clean, wordless, final.
The moment I cleared the tree line I broke into a run. Laughter tore out of me, raw and genuine.
"Haha! I thought I'd have to act like that sickening saint—babbling philosophy and virtues like the boringest scroll hero alive. But it seems virtue actually gives bonuses in fate battles. Deeper embodiment means smoother duels, faster momentum. The complete opposite—sin—slows breakthroughs to a crawl. Perfect system!"
The wind whipped the words away as I descended the hidden trails. No one followed. Lira was already behind me, part of a life that no longer mattered.
I needed a root clan. Not a branch—too visible, too tangled with the relatives who had stripped my house bare. A numerous root clan beneath a branch family, led by someone between third and fifth rank.
Tiang Wen of the Wen clan. Fifth rank. Still personally handling the old life-debt my grandfather had earned saving him decades ago. The favor sat untouched. Time to collect.
I would enter as an apprentice. Grind to third rank in the outer circles. Push into inner. Then—if patience held—the core area where only descendants usually walked. My own fractured family line was resentful and heated with each other, but they still cared enough not to block a legitimate debt. Cultivation was their life; they wouldn't stagnate their own progress for sentiment, but they wouldn't burn the bridge either.
I could have waited until middle-tier rank 1—stronger foundation, deeper reserves—but travel without resources after that point would be brutal. Better to move now, while the aperture was fresh and the shameless window still wide open.
Lague Mountain shrank behind me with every stride—gray rock, flickering illusions, death-luck grass already fading into irrelevance. Not even worth remembering. Not a single line in any future record would mention the orphaned boy who had eaten death to live and then simply walked away.
White luck—thin, fragile, but white—trailed above my head like a faint promise.
The Trick Region border lay ahead: shadowed roads, root clans, debts waiting to be cashed.
I smiled into the cooling dusk, violet eyes reflecting the first stars of Eryndor.
The Platinum Age turned onward, indifferent.
And I, Bayley Lone—who had once been Flick—had finally begun the real descent.
Alone!!!!!!!